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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824342">in muted kitchen light</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoesome/pseuds/hoesome'>hoesome</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Timeskip, Slow Dancing SakuAtsu Dressed Up as a Fic, ish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:15:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,070</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoesome/pseuds/hoesome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Know how’ta dance, Omi-<em>kun</em>?” he asked, a playful lilt to his voice. Fingers dug into Kiyoomi’s palm as he tried to control the goosebumps spreading down his neck. These days Miya’s inflection fluctuated between standard dialect and Kansai-ben, bound to flare-ups when he was particularly excited. Kiyoomi has stopped trying to pretend like he didn’t find that endearing. </p>
<p>“No,” slipped out of his mouth.</p>
<p>Miya grinned indulgently, 36 octillion lumens to rival the sun. “No worries, Omi-Omi,” he said, extending an open hand to the side as he curled his other arm around where Kiyoomi’s shoulder would be if he were standing. “I’ll teach ya.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Haikyuu ship, Team MSBY Black Jackal Haikyuu</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in muted kitchen light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In his first year with the Jackals, Kiyoomi attended a record low of two official team events: his not so surprise welcome on the first day, and the team’s end of season celebratory party. His attendance both times had been begrudging, the second one a commitment made after multiple texts of escalating intensity from their Head of Public Relations, culminating in an office visit that was nothing but a grand waste of his time. By the ninth furrowing of brows and the fourth, “Would that be all, Suzuki-san?” she seemed to have caught onto his pronounced dislike for meetings and threatened him with daily drop-ins unless he graced the dinner with his presence for at least three hours, during which he had to pretend as though he enjoyed the company of his teammates. He honestly did; he’d just prefer it outside of a sponsored event.</p>
<p>“Three hours,” Kiyoomi had seethed. No more, no less. </p>
<p>So here he was, an hour and forty minutes in, withstanding an affair that was predictably less dinner and much more party. To start with, they were at a bar which served food, instead of the other way around. Furthermore, the food in question came in small plates which looked pretty but did nothing to sate Kiyoomi’s hunger. He was certain the rest of the team felt the same, though they were better at hiding it. It was also extremely dim, almost uncomfortably so, as Kiyoomi struggled to differentiate between one friend of a friend and another. </p>
<p>Not that it mattered right now, considering he was backed into the bar by the half of the team that seemed to thrive on volleyball highs and Kiyoomi lows. He mourned his decision to sink onto a flat surface closest to the entrance when he could’ve been better hidden on one of the chaises across the dancefloor or, better yet, at home.</p>
<p>“One shot, Omi-san,” orange pleaded.</p>
<p>“C’mon, Omi-Omi!” black-and-white whined. “Just one.”</p>
<p>“Please, Omi?” platinum-blond asked coyly, Kiyoomi’s response — <em>Please what?</em> — cut out for him. Kiyoomi huffed. He would not cave. “For me?” A tiny glass filled to the brim with what Kiyoomi knew to be the devil’s blood emerged between them. He ignored that last question. <em>He would not cave</em>. “Y’know I <em>never</em> drink, but even I took a shot. You gotta do it to mark the end of an era!” He emphasized his words with what he must’ve thought was an enticing jiggle of the cup. When Kiyoomi winced at how the liquid sloshed about, Miya halted like he was sorry for agonizing him even though the silky smile he flashed Kiyoomi told a different story, the subtle curl of his lips to be picked up only by eyes that had spent hours watching him.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi sighed and the three of them perked up at the unclenching of his jaw, the slight drooping of his shoulders. It was annoying that they had his tells figured out, even though it was also, possibly, fucking endearing. </p>
<p>“One shot,” he said, caving. “One shot,” Miya acquiesced, handing him the drink. </p>
<p>Kiyoomi plucked it out of his dirty fingers, expertly maintaining as little contact with the sticky surface as possible, removed an ear loop and tipped his head back to down it in one gulp. Bokuto and Hinata cheered while Miya watched on in signature smugness, smirking only after Kiyoomi had passed the empty glass back to him. “Wanna dance, Omi?” he asked as the other two flitted over to a different circle now that they had completed their mission here.</p>
<p>“I’m not drunk yet,” Kiyoomi answered, slipping his mask back on. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to be,” Miya said. Sometimes, Kiyoomi wondered what <em>their</em> little dances looked like to the others. Would Meian think Miya was trying to goad him into a night of alcohol-induced embarrassment? Would Inunaki think Kiyoomi was in desperate need of a different, more chivalrous man to come to his rescue? Would Bokuto, if he ever looked away from Akaashi, think Kiyoomi could do better, that Kiyoomi didn’t have what he had? </p>
<p>Kiyoomi smiled behind his mask, a strike of lightning in the distance. “Have fun,” he told Miya, who harrumphed and made his way over to honorary MSBY member Aran Ojiro, invited to all of their parties by proximity. Miya would survive, Kiyoomi thought as he spun around in his stool to face the bartender and nurse his water, only to be ambushed yet again by the team captain.</p>
<p>“Sakusa,” Meian greeted, sliding an arm on the countertop. Kiyoomi nodded in silent appreciation at the distance he maintained. “Not gonna join the others?”</p>
<p>“No,” he said simply.</p>
<p>Meian gave a hum of understanding. “As expected, I guess.” He flipped around so he was leaning over the bar, informing the bartender with a look that he would like his order taken. “Whiskey,” he said when the man was within earshot. “Bottom shelf’s fine.”</p>
<p>His curious side glance prompted Kiyoomi into meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to stay until the end,” Meian offered. </p>
<p>“I promised Suzuki-san three hours."</p>
<p>Meian accepted his drink with a gracious wave. “I won’t snitch if you leave early,” he said, turning to look straight at Kiyoomi. He winked. “Neither will the rest of them.” Kiyoomi was silent. He had no regrets signing with this team, and, really, as much as he’d bitched about it, three hours for a year was quite the sensible demand.</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” he said, finger tracing mindless shapes on the dewy surface of his glass. He had to see it through, or whatever. “There are photographers,” was the excuse he settled for. “She’d know.” </p>
<p>“If you say so,” Meian said. Kiyoomi could feel his grin encroaching upon his own moodiness and, in an effort to ignore him, aggressively yanked his mask down to take a sip of water. Another hour to go. Then, if luck would have it, another year.</p>
<p><br/>
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</p>
<p>It was five minutes before midnight when he finally heard the knock. Kiyoomi turned off the light as he exited the bathroom, leaving only the glow emanating from his nightstand to illuminate the room. His slippers tapped gently against the wooden floor as he made his way to the door. The sight of a sober, showered Miya Atsumu by the entrance of his studio — stepping on shoes he had removed preemptively because he knew Kiyoomi wouldn’t let him in otherwise — was no longer a novelty. He stared impassively at the lopsided grin he was presented with before turning around to walk back inside, leaving the entrance wide open. </p>
<p>“Surprised you showed up tonight, Omi,” Miya said, following Kiyoomi onto the couch. </p>
<p>“I had to,” Kiyoomi replied. Miya surveyed the well-kempt room like he hadn’t seen it every few days over the past couple of months, leaving Kiyoomi to wonder when he had allowed this to turn into a habit. Frankly, he wasn't even sure what <em>this</em> was. Visiting each other’s apartments to discuss strategy, analyze plays, tune into matches — he’d imagine those activities weren’t out of the ordinary for teammates who lived next to each other. But right now there was no strategy to discuss, no plays to analyze, no matches to tune into, yet there was still one teammate too many occupying his space. </p>
<p>Laughing, Miya complimented in his own twisted way, "Suzuki-chan's a beast,” and leaned in, looking at Kiyoomi with those half-lidded eyes, soft flames licking behind them. “Still, three hours' gotta be a new record for ya.” Kiyoomi scoffed, hating the insinuation that he only stayed because Suzuki was scary. “Again,” he emphasized, “I had to.”  </p>
<p>If Kiyoomi tried, he could probably trace these late-night outings to the time Miya had stumbled upon the social media of a black Labrador that "looks just like you Omi!" and had insisted on showing him its account in person so he could experience Kiyoomi’s live reaction to the pictures. But wait, wasn’t Kiyoomi the one who had rushed over to Miya’s place the week before because he had found a study which supported his claim that warm-up intensity had an effect on jump performance? No, even before that, there was the time when Miya had asked him for three eggs and two stalks of green onions at 7AM and then brought cooked breakfast to eat at his place, with him. He sighed as Miya asked, “What were you up to before I got here?” </p>
<p>An elegant Sakusa eyebrow lifted up slowly. “What does it look like, Miya?” he asked through the darkness, but Miya was no longer paying him any attention. His fingers flew furiously across his phone. “There’s a video I wanna show you,” he said instead. </p>
<p>Miya shoved the device in his face, and Kiyoomi let himself be shown a video. “Look at'im," he cooed at the dog doing tricks on the screen. "Isn't he a good boy? The bestest boy?" He has been abusing Kiyoomi’s indifference toward canines ever since Kiyoomi had let slip that they were scientifically more hygienic than humans and, therefore, tolerable as a species. When the clip ended and auto-played the next one, Kiyoomi let that happen as well. A second dog made an appearance in the third video, its golden coat a pleasant contrast against the black of the first one. Their owners had them up by their forelegs in this one, performing simple footwork to imitate a dance as a romantic ballad played in the background. Kiyoomi heard Miya's exclamation coming from a mile away, prefaced by a dramatic gasp. “Omi, you still owe me a dance!”</p>
<p>The phone was snatched away then, Miya punching something into his screen before another trashy pop song started filtering through the speakers. He jumped out of the couch and, clearing his throat, composed himself into something deceivingly refined. With his left hand tucked behind his back, he bent over at his waist and extended his right hand. “May I?” he asked.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi blinked. When he opened his eyes, Miya’s arm remained outstretched, a patient invitation waiting on his response. Kiyoomi’s gaze drifted from veined forearms to lips crooked in understanding. In his chest, a hopeful beat. “Sometime this year, Omi,” he said, to which Kiyoomi snorted. Then, he tried a nod. </p>
<p>Grinning, Miya straightened back up, standing tall. The bare light bounced off his profile, enshrining half of him in a higher plane. Kiyoomi took in his bleached hair, the shadows darting across the sharp cuts of his face. He was incandescent, enough to take Kiyoomi’s breath away had he not been expecting Miya to pull something like this.</p>
<p>“Know how’ta dance, Omi-<em>kun</em>?” he asked, a playful lilt to his voice. Fingers dug into Kiyoomi’s palm as he tried to control the goosebumps spreading down his neck. These days Miya’s inflection fluctuated between standard dialect and Kansai-ben, bound to flare-ups when he was particularly excited. Kiyoomi has stopped trying to pretend like he didn’t find that endearing. </p>
<p>“No,” slipped out of his mouth.</p>
<p>Miya grinned indulgently, 36 octillion lumens to rival the sun. “No worries, Omi-Omi,” he said, extending an open hand to the side as he curled his other arm around where Kiyoomi’s shoulder would be if he were standing. “I’ll teach ya.”</p>
<p>As if he had planned this evening down to the second, the music transitioned into the song from the video, right on cue. Knowing Miya, it’s entirely possible that he <em>had</em> been scheming for the past six hours. “Where did you learn how to dance?” Kiyoomi asked.</p>
<p>The grin turned sheepish. “Picked it up back in high school.”</p>
<p>Despite himself, Kiyoomi felt a tug on the corner of his lips. “In an effort to impress Kita-san?” he taunted, knowing he’d hit the bullseye when Miya scowled. “Whatever,” he grumbled as he took a few steps back, far enough that his movements became easier for Kiyoomi to follow. He cocked his head to the side in rapt concentration, brows furrowing before he started counting to three repeatedly and Kiyoomi realized he had been trying to figure out the rhythm. “One, two, three, one two,” he shifted his attention back onto Kiyoomi, two eyebrows raised expectantly. “Three,” Kiyoomi finished. Miya’s fingers twitched, as if tightening his grip.</p>
<p>On the next downbeat, Miya murmured, “Right foot back,” and Kiyoomi could almost hear the low voice by his ear, feel the air shifting and lapping at sensitive skin to accommodate the three syllables. “Left foot across,” Miya instructed next. Even Kiyoomi could tell they were way offbeat, but Miya didn’t seem to mind. “Then, right foot to left.” Miya caught his gaze. “Repeat in reverse,” he said, demonstrating. </p>
<p>“Teach me how to lead instead,” Kiyoomi requested.</p>
<p>“Sure— Wait, why do you—” he rushed back to squint at Kiyoomi’s seated form, hands on his hips as he glowered. “Ya filthy liar!” Kiyoomi snorted. “Ya said ya didn’t know how!” </p>
<p>"Did I?" </p>
<p>Miya groaned. “I hate you.” </p>
<p>“Teach me.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you, Omi,” Miya said, even as his hand shifted down to an imaginary waist. Kiyoomi startled the both of them when he rose from the couch to bypass Miya and turn on the kitchen light, dragging the slider next to the switch almost all the way down before returning to where Miya was waiting, and splayed out his arms. They hovered at a standstill.</p>
<p>“Miya,” he prodded. The man in question cleared his throat. “We don't have to, Omi,” he supplied, receiving only an eye roll in response.</p>
<p>Hands wrapped tentatively around Kiyoomi, pressing against his back. He wondered if it was obvious, how he tensed then relaxed beneath the wool of his sweater, beneath the fragile touch. Kiyoomi brought his own hands to rest against Miya’s clothed shoulders, fingers clasped together behind his neck. </p>
<p>“Weren’t you going to teach me?” he asked. Miya made a face even as they executed a flawless loop, Kiyoomi taking note of Miya’s fluency with great interest. He released his hands to circle around a tapered waist while nudging Miya’s to settle on his shoulders, reversing their roles so he was leading like he had originally wanted to. “Left foot forward,” Miya mumbled. Kiyoomi followed obligingly. On the next beat, instead of the diagonal like they had practiced, Kiyoomi led Miya into a twirl with a sudden tug of his arm, smirking when he almost tripped. Kiyoomi broke his fall, but his eyes were full of silent provocation when Miya turned his glare on him.</p>
<p>Holding still as Miya repositioned himself, with fondness he’d just learned to be capable of, he offered, “You can try touching me.” </p>
<p>Hands fluttered in a space of liminality, on the cusp of skin against skin. Kiyoomi waited, patient as the edge of a palm curled around his neck, fingers quick to follow. He leaned slightly into the touch. </p>
<p>There was no <em>oh</em> moment of clarity, barely a spark as fingertips grazed his nape. Kiyoomi was, above all, thorough in his examinations and deliberate in his decisions. His feelings were built brick by laborious brick on every past interaction. Atsumu who matched him in bluntness, who had both a superiority and inferiority complex; Atsumu who took the time to understand him, who remained steadfast in his commitment even upon uncovering the extent of Kiyoomi’s idiosyncrasies. He knew exactly why he wanted Atsumu — a distasteful, “Woah, yer kinda hot. Sakusa Kiyoomi, right?” while stretching in the Ajinomoto Center, “Ya got some <em>nasty</em> spin, Sakusa-kun,” after their first official high school match, “That a good toss, Omi-kun?” at his MSBY tryouts, and, Kiyoomi considered his fingers, setter long and setter perfect, now fully sheathing his neck, “I’ll teach ya.”</p>
<p>They were swaying in place as the next song started, having given up on any semblance of structure. Outside the kitchen where they had migrated to, there was a cackling in the sky. Familiar tunes of rainfall followed, the occasional droplets peppering the window achieving an almost soothing cadence. The light Kiyoomi had went out of his way to turn on earlier bathed Atsumu in pastel radiance. Kiyoomi drank it in.</p>
<p>“Tired?” Atsumu asked when Kiyoomi stifled a yawn. The smile hanging off Atsumu’s lips lingered as a phantom pain in Kiyoomi’s chest. Unlike the ones he felt in his shoulders, this brand of ache compelled him to do the opposite of holding back.</p>
<p>Kiyoomi stepped out of Atsumu’s grasp and tried not to outwardly react to the way his face fell and then burnt impossibly brighter when Kiyoomi brought their hands together, unfurling his fingers against Atsumu’s palms. Today, he decided, he would jump a little higher and swing a little wider for a set that was imperfect but most definitely his. He shifted their hands out of alignment so that when he curled down, his fingers slotted perfectly in-between Atsumu’s. </p>
<p>“Holy shit, Omi,” Atsumu said, staring at their joined hands. Kiyoomi let out something that could pass as a laugh. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, breaking apart just as quickly.</p>
<p>“Omiiiiii,” he whined at the loss but seemed to think better of pursuing the subject. “Can I stay the night?" he asked instead. "I can sleep on the couch." </p>
<p>He watched Atsumu watch him and tried to imagine what might be firing through the synapses of his brain this very moment. “Yeah,” he said at last.</p>
<p>Atsumu pouted. “You don’t seem sure, Omi-Omi."</p>
<p>Kiyoomi thought of a ball, curving through the air. He calculated its trajectory, measured the necessary run-up distance, and debated whether any of that would be worth his effort. Could he say he was sure of even Atsumu’s prettiest sets?</p>
<p>So he responded honestly, “Maybe not,” grabbed him by the chin, and kissed him on the crest of his left cheekbone anyway. </p>
<p>They stared at each other as Kiyoomi pulled away, sidestepping Atsumu to head for his bed and climb under the warmth of his comforter. Atsumu remained unmoving as he thumbed the spot Kiyoomi’s lips had just claimed. He looked so awestruck, almost scandalized, that Kiyoomi couldn’t help but laugh. </p>
<p>“We’re going to <em>talk</em> about what just happened tomorrow,” Atsumu hissed from the couch, settling into his bed for the night by fluffing up a makeshift pillow of a cushion and stealing the throw blanket Kiyoomi kept draped over his armchair. “Like adults."</p>
<p>“Okay,” Kiyoomi said, flipping over to his side. He smiled into the curve of his shoulder and closed his eyes, willing sleep to take him. Outside, the rain poured on. “Tomorrow, then.”</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this was supposed to be part of a bigger thing but a tenth of the way through writing that i realized i just wanted to skip to the part where they're slow dancing as almost lovers and forgo the part where they're enemies LOL. idk this could still turn into a bigger thing someday maybe. who knows!!</p>
<p>thank you for reading 🖤</p>
<p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/i/user/1332930692087304192">twitter</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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